


Kiss with a Twist

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, M/M, i'll pilot this shit on my own i don't care, i'm tired of waylon getting fucked, time for eddie to get fucked fellas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: The Tech has found a new prisoner to own. This one likes to sew.





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie searches tirelessly for something to do with his hands. He moans against the stagnant breeze that crowds him every so often, possessed by the notion that if it was just a little firmer, a touch more forthright, it could be the caress of a woman instead. His heart leaps into his throat. He seizes on the possibility.

The floor rises to meet his hands and knees. Eddie lurches forward and back, almost as if someone’s beneath him (or above). His chest feels full. Too full.

Does he remember? Will he remember? Can he remember?

Twin grips on his shoulders vye for attention, nails digging gently. They won’t dare break the skin, but the possibility forces Eddie’s face into the floorboards, his mouth open in what could pass for horror or delight, depending on who bears witness. 

“Mother?” He asks in a small, small voice.

A boot connects with the back of his head, and Eddie’s out.

* * *

 

Waylon doesn’t like killing. He thinks it’s cruel. He hasn’t been here for too long, but it’s been long enough at least that he sees the necessity in doing things he doesn’t like.

So, the killing. The killing which he doesn’t like becomes the necessity he must adopt.

It’s quiet in this part of the asylum. There are very few living souls around, and most of them find their way down just to hurry right back up. Waylon appreciates the fear, even if he knows he isn’t the one who generates it.

After silencing the talker — that’s Waylon’s pet name for whoever the fuck was bitching and whining upstairs — most inmates realize early enough that they don’t want to be in the vocational block. It’s too dank, too dark, too decrepit. Too overrun with the smell of mildew and decay. Waylon sympathizes. After all, he pressed fresh decay into the air himself.

Stupid talker. Waylon likes to let most of them live, but he doesn’t do well with being threatened. No, no. Not since he was in that bastard Jeremy’s chair on his first day. No. Waylon snapped, and he keeps snapping even now.

With his spindly fingers wrapped in the patchwork quilt of fabric his prisoner wears.

Technically, they’re all prisoners, but Waylon likes to think he has his own personal clutch that not even Murkoff themselves could grab. Not even if they wanted. Waylon’s soul is implanted in Massive’s computer system. He lives within all information stored and distributed. His eyes glow a faint reddish-orange with it, and if he wants to reprimand Murkoff’s staff for being too invasive, Waylon doesn’t have to think twice.

Benefits of trading sanity for technology.

There are loud creaks all throughout Waylon’s crawl to the prisoner’s chopping block. He learns to tune most of the sounds in the asylum out, but these are ever-present. No matter where they move, there is sound.

And his prisoner is heavy. He gasps occasionally in his sleep. It makes Waylon’s lips twitch.

His prisoner — this one is lovingly called ‘the tailor’ — rests full-bodied on a slab of wood the length and width of a man smaller than him. The crown of his head peeks over the edge of the slab. Waylon watches to see whether or not this wood will hold his prisoner, and after minutes of nothingness, decides it should be fine.

There are no wires in this part of the asylum. No circuitry, no electricity, no life. Waylon finds himself gritting his teeth and tieing the tailor up with rope. It’s old-fashioned, but he has few other options.

Waylon is shorter than the tailor. Much shorter, if he’s being honest. He isn’t left feeling intimidated as a result.

Waylon has seen brute strength all over Massive. He’s seen packs of wild dogs trapped inside mens’ bodies, watched them tear into weaker flesh. It’s brutal, but none of it is logical. Waylon, thankfully, has no shortage of logic.

Binary that runs in comforting directions through his parallel mind tells him where to run, when to stay put, and exactly how to swing. Most of them go down easy.

The tailor doesn’t look like he’ll be hard exactly, but Waylon would like for him to be. He admires fight in everyone. Especially those he claims.

It takes over an hour, but Waylon’s prisoner comes to. He shoots up against the rope he’s been bound with and then immediately is thrown back down toward the wood, muscles in his chest, arms, legs, and neck horribly strained.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up.” Waylon whispers, effecting a terrified little voice.

The tailor blinks irrhythmically before training his strangely blue eyes on Waylon. It almost isn’t fair, how beautiful he looks. Waylon is part machine; he realizes intimately the difference between mechanized beauty and the real deal.

His eyes glow brighter for the feeling.

“Are you alright?” Another small question.

The tailor seems to lick around his mouth for quite some time before spitting a thick mix of saliva and blood and easing back against the board.

“You kicked me.”

Oh. Oh, how alluring.

“Yes.” Waylon agrees, shark-like, at the tailor’s side in a moment with rusty fingers splayed excitedly across his stomach. “I did. Do you remember?”

“Hard to forget.” Eddie seethes.

His abdominal muscles clench, and Waylon gives Eddie the pleasure of small electric shocks down the length of the hardened muscle.

As if on elegant cue, Eddie convulses where he’s lain, an aborted yell robbed from his throat.

“Are you lu-u-ucid?” Waylon asks; he’s almost giddy. “Do you have a na-a-ame?”

“What the fuck did you just do?” The tailor growls.

Waylon grins and does it again, amping up the voltage by torturingly high degrees.

The tailor’s eyes roll back in his head. He yells properly. Waylon’s heart is so full he can hardly keep himself from acting on his impulses. Feverishly, the tech cups the tailor’s head and kisses him, moaning against yielding lips.

“Your name. Please. Please.” Waylon traces his rigid cheekbone.

“E-Eddie,” the prisoner pants.

“Eddie.” Waylon repeats on the heels of his voice.

Eddie nods, looking uncertain, unhinged. Angry.

“You and I are going to have a lot of fun, Eddie.”


	2. Chapter 2

Waylon’s pulse spikes whenever Eddie snaps at him, and surprisingly, he snaps a lot. It’s strange. Usually when he steals a patient and keeps them for his own, Waylon finds that they seldom have the presence of mind to strike back when he exercises discipline. Too afraid of what they’ve seen already. Terrified of what could happen next.

  
Of course, they should be. Waylon is a live wire. His hands are filled with electricity, and all it takes it a little willful intent from him to insight instantaneous hurt.

  
There have been patients Waylon’s grown tired of a few hours into their capture. They… are usually found incapacitated by others when Waylon is done with them. They moan and shake, limbs twitching from pain and exhaustion.

  
From what Waylon can tell, his discards don’t last long. It’s a good thing Eddie hasn’t proven to be discardable.

  
Even now, while Waylon unites him to tend to a few flesh wounds, Eddie wants Waylon’s neck. He says as much. His eyes never quite leave Waylon, and for that alone, Waylon is grateful. He hasn’t met a patient yet that’s been so entirely lucid.

  
“Your files are all over the block, Eddie,” Waylon mentions.

  
He carefully unspools the rope from around Eddie’s left ankle, soft fingertips brushing the delicate skin and bone beneath. Eddie flinches, but doesn’t try to move away. Even if the tailor dislikes Waylon, he’s aware of the consequences misbehaving carries.

  
“Did you know?”

  
Eddie looks irritated more than he looks upset, and Waylon is delighted. It means he’ll answer.

  
“Rat bastards that run this operation don’t give enough of a damn. They probably want little shits like you to find them.”

  
Waylon slips his hand up and under Eddie’s pants, stroking along the length of his calf. He considers what he’s been told.

  
“So you didn’t know.” Waylon’s single hand works on the rope around Eddie’s other ankle.

  
“No. I didn’t know.”

  
Waylon nods. He’s happy with the straightforwardness.

  
“They aren’t kind to you, are they? They’re pretty mean.” Aren’t they?

  
There’s a wiery energy underneath his skin. It wants him to climb into Eddie’s bones and make him dance. It wants to be entertained, sustained, and loved. Waylon wants security. Eddie feels very secure beneath him.

  
“You expect me to be a fucking exception?” Another snap.

  
Waylon smiles. He retrieves his hand, walks toward the front of Eddie. To his chest, neck, and head. Waylon leans down so close that he and Eddie have no choice but to share breath.  


Eddie stubbornly refuses to break eye contact. But — his head does move. To the left; further away.

  
As easily as he unties Eddie’s limbs, Waylon grabs a fistful of his hair and holds him still.

  
“We have to do something about that tongue,” he whispers. “It seems to have a mind of its own.”

  
Waylon’s wanted to kiss Eddie again since he kissed him the first time, back when they first met. It was so easy. So easy to slip his tongue inside, to ravage what he claimed. Eddie was out of his mind, agonized and confused, and when Waylon has descended he hardly had the time to process.

  
There was a moment. A small one, one that Waylon knows Eddie would refuse if he was asked about it, where he responded to Waylon’s kiss in kind.

  
He’s lonely. Waylon knows he’s lonely. All he has to do is exploit that.

  
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to cut it out.” Eddie sneers.

  
He’s a little clueless, too, sometimes. Or maybe Waylon hasn’t been clear enough.

  
“Open your mouth, tailor.” Waylon commands.  
His voice is serene.

  
Eddie hesitates, and gently, Waylon scratches over his scalp with electric fingertips. The result is nothing short of beautiful. Eddie moans, bites through his lip, and then closes his eyes.

  
“Don’t,” he murmurs.

  
Waylon uses his free hand to clench down hard on Eddie’s jaw. It opens, but not without a pained hiss.

  
“Good boy,” Waylon praises.

  
There’s a garbled response. It doesn’t make sense, but one can get the gist. Vitriol has a specific color.

  
Waylon licks into Eddie’s mouth slowly. He traces the tip of his tongue over Eddie’s front teeth, across the roof of his mouth. Up and down his own tongue as he sees fit. It’s not as sensual as Waylon wants, but it’s not meant to be. Waylon wants to prove a point.

  
Eddie groans. It’s a distant sound.

  
The hand closed around Eddie’s jaw disappears. Eddie keeps his mouth open for a second, then slowly closes it. Waylon makes an appreciative sound, encouraging Eddie to do more. Do more.

  
He’s rewarded by Eddie’s own tongue moving slowly out. Dancing along Waylon’s lower lip. Is it a sign of submission? Waylon can’t tell.  
When Eddie pitches his head forward to kiss Waylon with fervor, the tech pulls away and smiles.

  
“What?” Eddie asks.

  
He looks… confused. Sad, maybe. Maybe. Waylon’s hand is still in his hair.

  
“Do you like being kissed, tailor?” Waylon asks.

  
Eddie snarls, but a second later his eyes are slipping to the side, almost as if he can’t in good conscience meet Waylon halfway.

  
“Yes.” He grits.

  
Waylon nods. He steps back over to Eddie’s legs to continue untying him. Never let it be said that he’s unkind to his prisoners. Eddie is bleeding, results of his own thrashing, and Waylon will clean him up. He’ll clean him up, and he’ll give Eddie something he wants. If he’s good.

  
“Lie still, and we’ll see what can be done about that particular _illness_.”

  
Eddie flinches again.

**Author's Note:**

> you know i had to do it to em


End file.
